Mad Brits

Well, when you come home at 4:00 AM unable to stand vertically, yet still manage to sit down and BLOG of all things...well, maybe the first step is admitting that you need help.

I've noticed that for a blog called "the lawyer writer" there's actually very little law involved. There is writing, though I worry that most of these posts are actually about the ridiculousness that is my life. I don't know if that is a good idea, as it feels a little self-indulgent and I worry that it isn't that interesting to...well, anyone. If you are reading this blog, then drop me a comment once in a while and give me your thoughts. I promise, though--there will be more law.

Anyway, for those curious about last night, just blame the Brits. I am generally pro-Brit, being raised in an relatively Anglophile household and exposed early to Monty Python, Fawlty Towers and P.G. Wodehouse. However, I am not sure that that being overly exposed to Brits is a good thing, since they are generally mad. Not mad like "mad at me," but more along the lines of "good god, how can you possibly still be drinking?!" mad.

This all began with the much awaited Hair Supply concert, which was just fantastic. (Please visit their site immediately, as I cannot do them justice here). Suffice it to say, I was so excited that I forgot to get drinks during the nearly sold-out concert. And if you have not yet experienced the melodramatic, overwhelming homoeroticism of a hair band playing "I'm All Out Of Love," then you will when the lead singer and the guitarist give into the feeling and engage in a passionate, messy French kiss. Hair Supply is made up members of the now-legendary mock-metal band Satanicide, also known in their more serious version as Heather. My friend Griff, from Satanicide, was amazing in his Tommy Lee, arms flailing drummer mode (though I was disappointed that the drum set didn't revolve in mid-air). His wife Ali rocked the house in a great striped spandex catsuit (she's of the trip-hop band Puracane, which I'm dying to hear since I have just rediscovered Tricky's Maxinquaye.)

Griff and Ali definitely qualify as "mad Brits" as they party in a way that I've only seen in Motley Crue videos. The last I saw them--after they generously crippled me with, er, contraband--was when they were waiting in line to get into Crobar at midnight. I can only assume that they have stopped partying since the Crobar party--complete with a guest, impromptu concert by P.Diddy--was scheduled only from midnight to noon. But you never know when this particular party will stop.

The other mad Brits I were with were less obviously "mad Brits," but looks are deceiving. The psuedo-respectable "Horse" (Ollie) and the visiting-from-London "Monkey" (Andrew) are actually in some pub right now, drinking, while I'm trying to figure out if my vital organs are still working. We did spend some time trying to figure out my animal nickname--I lobbied for the ever-sexy "Kitten" but Ollie lobbied for "Peacock" or "Some kind of small feral cat," while Andrew was uselessly coming up with things like "Dolphin" or "Spiny Anteater." As of last call at 4 AM, the issue had yet to be resolved. Considering that Monkey got off the plane and promptly started drinking ten minutes later, and doesn't seem to have stopped, I think I'm in for a hectic week.

So that's my explanation for my sad, late-night attempt at blogging. I hope that everyone has learned these valuable lessons: 1) Go see Hair Supply immediately, 2) Brits are mad, and 3) Don't Drink and Blog. Ever.